Devoid
by intodust
Summary: Nightfall and overcoming memories.


Devoid  
by intodust  
  
Disclaimer: "Dark Angel" belongs to Cameron/Eglee Productions and 20th Century Fox; that is, it's not mine. "Scarborough Fair" belongs to Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel; that is, it's not mine, either.  
  
Apologies, perhaps, to Simon and Garfunkel. Thanks, too.  
  
Story takes place in (a technically AU) Season One.  
  
- - -  
  
Rain like small stars, glistening in what faint light survives the fall upwards. Rain like small stars, infinite in number, and she watches the drops slide down the window, leaving smeared trails. The world's blurred through the paths, where the rain has been, but she can see only pieces, never a whole image. Beside these faint paths, the rest of the world burns in clarity.  
  
He is still next to her, slow soft breathing, and the clouds obscure whatever brightness would have shone on them, whatever light would have chased shadows and left her in peace.  
  
- - -  
  
She leans against the glass, water drying in her hair. The world is broken; she can hear screams, distant and muted, edged sharp with dark fear. And sirens, breaking glass. She could explain what it sounds like, sounds shattering inwards, mirror images sliding across the floor, smashing into forgotten corners. And the crispness of bone.  
  
She moves to dislodge memories, to replace the past with now. Now. Minutes and seconds, ticking by. How much time does she have left? The sun is red on the horizon, once-rigid colors smearing and dying like October leaves. Heading towards burnout. They will flare, blood and gold, and then fade away into the muted calm of twilight, and then night will fall, maybe forever. The world is broken, but some things never change.  
  
Soft violin from the kitchen, and the smell of herbs. Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Shades of the past – Leo, she thinks. He would play that song and make love to her, though, of course, it was never love. That's what he called it, but it was sex. No more, no less. He would play that song, and his hands would be warm on her stomach, fingerprints on the flesh of her shoulders. Two voices, haunting against the black night, pale lines of song and past.  
  
He looks up from the stove and the light catches the lenses of his glasses, and she can't see his eyes. He holds the ladle loosely, light wood against the smooth elegance of his hands, and she can't get the song out of her head. "Max?" he says, his voice rough with disuse.  
  
She shakes her head. "Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme," she says, and she's not sure why.  
  
He tilts his head, and the light falls away. His eyes are dark and so expressive as to be blank. She can't tell what he's thinking. "Didn't know you liked them."  
  
"I've got levels," she says, and it's not agreement. It's not denial, either, because she's not sure if she does. "Hidden depths."  
  
"Right," he says, and as she turns away, he catches her eyes and something catches in her throat. "Hidden depths," he repeats, and she nods.  
  
- - -  
  
The candle flickers, shifting golden reflections on the woodgrain table. The dishes are cleared, but the air is rich; the scent of the herbs lingers, not heavy enough to be a ghost. The violin is repeating, soft melancholy strands, and she waits for him to return. He went to get something for her, and she can hear him moving elsewhere, rooms away. Not close enough to tell what he's doing, but close enough to know that he's there. He's here.  
  
The music stops, and she knows what he's doing. She wonders if he knows what memories it holds, or if he knows that it holds memories at all. Perhaps he thinks she's attached to the lyrics, or to the promises. The sentiment. She wonders if he knows.  
  
He returns to her, then, and it begins. She looks down at her hands, surprised to see that they're not shaking, and then he is speaking. "It's old," he says.  
  
"I know." The steadiness of her voice surprises her, too.  
  
"Max," he says, and wheels hush across the hardwood floor as he comes towards her. She looks up and the candle throws shadows on his face, wild and changing.  
  
She turns, then, and his hands are cool on her arm. She'd expected heat, and he is calm. She sees restraint in his eyes, and something darker, wild as the candle's lone flame. She smiles and he tastes of wine and sage, whiskey on her lips. His hands press against her, strong and gentle, and when he pulls away, she is cold where he'd touched her. He is watching her, she realizes, because he thinks maybe she doesn't want this, and he doesn't want to hurt her.  
  
He doesn't want to hurt her.  
  
The cloth of his shirt is soft and dark and he does not resist when she slides it away, and her own follows. His hands are smooth on her shoulders, unhooking her bra and pulling it away, and he is warm against her belly, tracing patterns of forever on unmarked flesh. She is suddenly afraid that he will leave again, that he will pull away, and so she does not move her hands from his shoulders while he undresses her, while he removes street-dirty clothes, layer after layer, until the candle glow falls gently on her bare skin.  
  
- - -  
  
The night is dark and she can taste the complexities. The linens are cold and she moves to him, feeling his arms encircle her. His kisses are soft against her skin, then, against her throat and in the hollow between her breasts, and her hands slide down his chest. She moves before him and he touches her, tantalizing and sweet, and she searches for his mouth, pulls it onto hers.  
  
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.  
  
- - -  
  
Dawn edges against the darkness, spilling pastels against the rich blackness. The rain has faded, retreated into the clouds, but the streets are still wet. Morning has broken, she thinks, and she sighs. Morning has broken in a broken world, but it's not funny. The music has stopped, haunting strains lost somewhere in the expanse between the glow of a candle and sunrise. She wonders when she stopped hearing it, when his heartbeat, their murmurs, took the place of careful words, laments.  
  
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. She does not think of Leo.  
  
He sighs, stirs, and touches her back, and she reaches back to clasp his hand, elegance between her fingers. She does not turn from the window, but she knows that she will. Soon, but not now. In his eyes she will find the future, and perhaps an apology, and she will make it all right. They will be all right. They will be.  
  
But right now, she watches the dawn, and his breath is warm against her, and that is all she needs.  
  
- - -  
  
The End. 


End file.
